


Area 51

by chick_with_wifi



Series: Covert Operations [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 05:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7300969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chick_with_wifi/pseuds/chick_with_wifi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freelance coder Root was the best in the busines. So good, in fact, that it brought her to the attention of some very dangerous people. And among them was an individual known as Sameen Shaw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Area 51

A sharp knock on the door jerked Root into wakefulness, and she sat up, muscles in her back complaining. Maybe spending the night on the sofa had not been her best idea ever. The knocking continued, insistent. She swept a hand over the coffee table in search of her glasses before realising they were already on her head. She moved them down onto her nose and walked over to the door, stretching. Once she had opened the door a crack the person on the other side slammed it the whole way open and stormed into the living room. 

“Please, come in,” said Root, her southern drawl surfacing the way it often did when she was tired. 

“You’d better have finished that project,” said Jason. 

Root attempted to make herself more presentable by combing her hair with her fingers, but all that achieved was making it look like more of a bird's nest than it already did, so she settled for straightening yesterday’s tank top and shorts. “I’ll have it finished by tonight.” 

Jason ran a hand through his hair. “Hell, Root. We don’t have until tonight!” 

“Stop yelling, you’re going to wake Emma,” hissed Root. She walked over to him and slammed a hand down on the back of the sofa. “You tell whoever it is you get these little projects from that it will be finished tonight. They can take it or leave it.” 

“Alright, but if they don’t like that it will be my ass that gets beat.” 

Root shrugged. “That’s fine by me.” 

Jason walked over to the door, shaking his head. “You’re a funny one Root.” 

The door slammed shut behind him and Root sighed and flopped down onto the old flannel sofa in her sparsely furnished living room. It had a grey carpet that had clearly seen better days, a wooden coffee table and a single window looking out onto another block of flats. The only thing of any worth in the entire apartment was her laptop, the latest model and never too far away from its owner. Root placed said laptop on her lap and commenced work on the project she had been set. Coding like this was childsplay, she could have done it with her eyes closed when she was thirteen. Normally she would have finished the project in a few hours, but she had finally done enough freelance work that she could put down a deposit on an actual house and had been looking into leaving the city for good. 

Later that day the landlord came round to inform Root that her last rent was overdue. “Well, don’t worry,” she informed him, “we’re going to be out of your hair for good very soon.” 

He smirked. “Got a fella now have you?” Root glared at him and slid her laptop into the messenger bag she was wearing. The rest of her possessions had been dumped into a holdall which she grabbed on her way into Emma’s bedroom to check if her daughter had finished packing. 

“Hey, honey,” she said softly. “How’s it going?” 

The four-year-old neatly folded her last top and put it into her rucksack. “Finished,” she announced. 

“Good work. Are you ready to go?” Emma nodded and put on her rucksack and Root turned to check they had not left anything, giving the apartment a once-over. When she was satisfied, she led the way of the building and towards the bus station. Luckily, there was a bus to central New York leaving in a few minutes. She herded Emma onto it and packed their many bags in around them. Root was beginning to fall asleep, head against the window when Emma pointed at something in the sky. “Mommy, what’s that?” Root looked past the raindrops sliding down the window and noticed it too. It was a black shape in the sky too small to be a plane – a jet? That was what Root thought it was, but why on earth would there be one of those here? When the bus reached the stop and Root and Emma were about to exit and the driver asked for their ticket, it dawned on Root. They didn’t have one. Oops. Run. Abandoning their bags on the bus, they ran at full speed for a block, then were forced to stop by a large black contraption blocking their path. 

The tall man stood next to the jet looked at them. “Hey ladies. Want a ride?” he asked. Root looked at Emma, an expert judge of character, who was giving him the eye. Not trustworthy, thought Root. “I’ve got a letter from my boss, a request for your presence,” he explained, holding up an official-looking document with a letterhead that read ‘Decima technologies’, which she remembered Jason mentioning once or twice. Sure enough, it read ‘Root Groves and Emma Hanna Groves’. The long, stressful day was really taking its toll on her and the jet looked so warm and comfortable. Besides, she was curious. More than that really, suspicious. If somebody was able to predict where her and her daughter were going to be at that precise moment in time then they surely have some technology she would love to get her hands on. Emma was cold and tired and maybe her judgement was somewhat impaired, Root told herself. But she’d better be on her guard, just in case. She climbed in and beckoned for Emma to join her. Root rested her head against the soft leather and admired the sleek and stylish interior which was more spacious than it looked from the outside. “I’m John, by the way,” he said. Root nodded her greeting, unwilling to give any more information about herself and her daughter away. After a while, she felt slightly sleepy, and not long after that she dropped off, in the warm jet on the soft seats soothed by the hum of the engine. 

“Is this the woman?” asked a female voice. 

“Yes, but she has a daughter with her too,” replied a husky male voice that she recognised as John’s. 

Root woke up to a throbbing headache, Emma tapping her on the arm and mysterious voices talking about her. She sat up, rubbed her back, and then realised what was going on. She closed her eyes again, and struggled to keep awake. But the discussion was over, and she could hear high heels clicking towards the helicopter. 

“Out,” ordered the female voice. Root opened her eyes and saw a petite Persian woman dressed in black with long, dark hair tied in a ponytail. 

“Where are we?” yawned Root as she stiffly climbed out. 

“Area 51,” replied the woman as Root lifted Emma out of the helicopter. She began walking towards a whitewashed concrete building, indicating for Root and Emma to follow. “You will not speak unless spoken to, you will call me Shaw and you will not touch anything. Any questions?” said the woman. 

“Yes, one. Why are we here?” asked Root, almost jogging to keep up with the shorter woman’s brisk pace. 

“You have a meeting with my boss. He wants to see you,” explained the woman, not clearing anything up for Root. Instead of stewing in misery because she had brought her daughter here, she decided to come up with a Plan of Action – as soon as she realised what the hell was actually going on. “This way,” said the woman sharply, continuing down a spotless white corridor. 

They reached a metal door with what looked like a retina scanner and the shorter woman stepped up to it. She looked into the retina scanner then leant towards a microphone and said “Sameen Shaw”. The door glided open and Root, feeling scruffier that ever, entered. She didn’t know who she thought it was going to be, a man in a swivel chair holding a rabbit who had been expecting her maybe, but whatever that was, this man was not it. He was an older man wearing an expensive looking suit, stood before a large television with a screen completely white apart from a single black line with a red triangle below it. 

“You must be Miss Groves,” he said in a clipped English accent. “My name is Greer.” 

“Call me Root,” she said coldly. 

Greer didn’t react. Instead he said, “I summoned you here because an…associate of mine assured me your computer skills are quite excellent and I would like to enlist your help on a project. How would you feel about changing the future?” 

Root didn’t even have to consider it. “Never.” 

“I can pay you,” he offered. “Money is not an issue.” 

Root shook her head. “It’s not that. You effectively abducted my daughter and I, and took us to Area 51 of all places!” 

Greer frowned. “I suppose I could employ different methods of persuading you. Martine!” he called. A blonde woman entered through an adjoining door and calmly pointed a gun at Root. 

Root grabbed Emma’s hand and set off sprinting down the corridor. An alarm went off and as they ran sirens were blaring, which really didn’t help Root’s headache, and red light flooded the building. She was faintly amused that they went to all that trouble for her, but then again she had been inside Area 51, which was this huge great mystery. She carried on running although she was utterly lost, until she saw an air vent. It was about the right size for her and Emma, and she could easily take off the grill-like cover. Using a hairpin, she turned the screws and silently took off the cover. “Now Em,” she said, “climb into this vent and crawl forward. Keep going until you can’t go forward anymore. The window opposite points to the back so it’s only logical this vent should lead to the front. I’ll be right behind you the whole time.” 

Wide eyed, Emma nodded and Root lifted her in. the air vent was bigger than it looked, and Root could just about crawl upright. After a while she was starting to get cramp, but luckily Emma told her about another grate in front that led to an empty room. Root gave her instructions on how to open it. The drop was quite big, so they backed up until Emma could round a corner and Root could go first. She leapt down, trying to look like a cat, but her ankle landed painfully and she crashed into a cabinet. Nothing broke, thank heavens, but with the whole place on red alert somebody was bound to notice. “Quickly, Emma,” whispered Root as her daughter leapt into her outstretched arms. Hand in hand, they stole into the corridor, which Root recognised. Thankful for her good memory, she attempted to sprint to the lobby, but her ankle was throbbing so hard she had to settle for a brisk walk. 

As she walked, well limped, with Emma beside her, Root felt astronomically bad. She was an atrocious person for getting her young daughter into this mess. They could both be indicted for treason, that is if they weren’t killed by one of these people. And it would all be her fault. Well, that settles it then, thought Root. We have to get out of her without being caught.  
But how do we get out of there safely? thought Root. But she couldn’t think of anything that didn’t place Emma in danger. Something about that man, Greer, had seemed...off. It wasn’t the accent or his ghastly taste in suits, but whatever it was she couldn’t put her finger on it. Perhaps they could hide somewhere until the search was over? Bingo! On their right was a supply closet. Such an obvious place to hide that Greer’s people wouldn’t suspect them to be stupid enough to actually hide there. And if they were found then chances are there would be a broom or something she could weaponise. Quickly examining the area, she confirmed there were no security cameras or air vents that could be used for surveillance. She jiggled the doorknob to check it wasn’t locked and squished into the supply closet, making room for Emma. Once they were both in she closed the door and hoped for the best. The closet was about the size of her wardrobe, her shoulders almost touching either side and her back pressing into shelves lining the back wall. In the darkness she could still hear the alarms, muffled by the door but still perfectly audible. 

Footsteps approached, vaguely familiar. The woman wearing heels - Smith? No, Shaw. The footsteps stopped, and Root assumed she must be outside the door. She barely dared breathe. 

“You know, there were more obvious places you could hide,” commented Shaw dryly from outside. “Yeah, I know you’re in there. And no, I’m not going to hurt you or your daughter so you can come out.” At Root’s hesitation she added, “I promise I won’t hurt either of you.” Gingerly, Root opened the door and indicated for Emma to step into the corridor. Shaw started walking back the way they had come, “follow me. There’s a back exit they only use for deliveries and stuff.” 

Root limped after her. “Why are you helping us?” 

“Two reasons. My actual boss wants to meet you, and I have a kid of my own, so I kinda felt like I owed it to her to protect this little one.” 

“Your actual boss?” 

Shaw gave her a skeptical look. “You didn’t think John and I really worked for that creep Greer, did you?” 

Root shrugged. “I didn’t know what to think.” 

They reached a corner and Shaw stopped them. “There’s a camera coming up on the left. Keep close to the wall and it shouldn’t see us. John is waiting outside on the helipad.” The three of them hugged the wall and made it to the up-and-over garage-style door. Shaw opened it and led them out and up an old metal staircase on the side of the building. On the roof was an helipad littered with dust and debris, which clearly hadn’t been used in about a decade. Sure enough, John was in the driver's seat of an old helicopter. “Take us to the library,” she told John before getting into the back with Root and Emma. “Most of them have forgotten this even exists,” added Shaw by way of explanation. 

They sat in silence for a bit, Root nervously chewing her thumbnail. “So, tell me about your kid,” she said to Shaw, trying to distract herself. 

“Name’s Gen, eleven years old. I adopted her about a year ago when her grandfather died.” 

Emma piped up, “is she nice?” 

Shaw smiled slightly, the most emotion Root had yet to see her express. “Yeah, she’s really nice.” 

“She’s older than me,” Emma informed her seriously. “I’m four.” 

“Four is a good age,” said Shaw. The van slowed to a stop and John opened the doors. Root helped Emma down then followed Shaw into an old-fashioned building. Inside was warm and had that old book smell that seemed to be the universal library requirement. Sat at a desk was another man, again dressed in a suit. At the sound of them approaching he turned to speak to them. “Thank you, Miss Shaw. Hello, I’m Mr Finch.” 

Root maintained a respectful distance, cautious of him. “Call me Root.” 

“I’m Emma,” said her daughter, smiling at Mr Finch like he was an old friend. 

“Nice to meet the both of you,” said Mr Finch. “You have no doubt had a long day. There is a padded bench in the library that makes a comfortable bed you would like to rest.” 

At the idea of sleep, Emma stifled a yawn. Root looked towards the area filled with books and made a mental assessment of how safe it would be. 

“She’ll be fine,” muttered Shaw next to Root’s ear. “I promise.” 

“Go on, honey,” Root said to Emma, watching as the four year old climbed onto the bench and curled into a ball, thumb in mouth. 

“Even though we have quite a lot to discuss, it can wait until tomorrow. Root, if you would like to spend the night here you are more than welcome.” 

“That would be great, thank you.” She took off her messenger bag containing her laptop that had somehow survived this entire journey and hung her leather jacket on the back of one of the chairs in the library while Mr Finch and John left. Sameen stayed behind. “Can’t bear to be separated from me?” asked Root. 

“You should probably get somebody to look at that ankle. It might be sprained.” 

After all that had happened, Root had managed to forget about her injured ankle. Now her attention had been drawn to it, she could feel it throbbing. 

Shaw sat down on the sofa and nodded for Root to do the same. At Root’s questioning eyebrow-raise she added, “I used to be a doctor, so unless you want to traipse the streets of New York looking for a medic at this time of the night I suggest you sit down.” 

Mutely, Root obliged and took off her boot. Her ankle looked bruised and swollen. With practiced hands, Shaw gently felt the area and examined it, tilting Root’s foot one way and the other. 

“Used to be a doctor, huh? What happened?” asked Root through gritted teeth. 

“I was fired,” said Shaw without looking up. 

“Then you joined the Marines.” 

Shaw abruptly looked up at her in surprise. 

Root gestured to Shaw’s bare forearm. “I saw your tattoo.” 

“Yeah, I worked for the Marines, then joined the ISA, then they tried to kill me so I started working for Harold. He wanted me to be his inside man at Greer’s operation, so here we are.” 

Root nodded, looking at the floor. She laced and unlaced her fingers, the words flowing out of her almost without her consent. “I used to be a con woman, getting close to rich people then stealing their money. One target was...particularly difficult, and I had to stop after Emma was born. That sort of profession isn’t the sort of thing you want a child near. My only other talent was computers, and you can see where that got me.” 

Shaw stood up. “You should put some ice on that ankle to reduce the swelling.” She got one from the fridge nearby and propped Root’s ankle on a cushion on the coffee table with a frozen bag of peas on top. “Why does Finch even have a bag of frozen peas?” she muttered to herself. Root smiled. Something about Shaw’s gruff demeanor comforted her. She shifted into a more comfortable position and Shaw hovered next to the door. “I’ll lock up, good night.” 

“Good night,” said Root to Shaw’s retreating back. Then she closed her eyes and fell asleep. 

The sound of the phone ringing cut through the silence of the library like a knife. Root started and woke with her heart racing. I really need to stop falling asleep, she thought. Every time I do the world seems to find another way of making me jump. Forgetting about her injured ankle she tried to stand up, but couldn’t get her balance and landed on her hands and knees so hard her glasses fell off her face. Laid on her stomach, she put her glasses back on and settled for crawling towards the table and staring at the phone, not daring to answer it. With a click it went to answerphone and Shaw’s impatient voice filled the room. “Pick up the phone, dammit!” 

Root reached up from where she was sat and, holding the receiver about an inch away from her ear, tentatively asked, “Shaw?” 

“Who were you expecting, the president?” 

Root smiled. “That much weird stuff has happened lately I wouldn’t be surprised.” 

“Yeah, well, you got me.” 

“You say that like that’s a bad thing,” said Root. 

“I’m calling to warn you Finch is on his way to speak to you. I know he can be a bit...full on.” 

Root nodded before remembering Shaw couldn’t see her over the phone. “Thanks, for the heads up.” 

“Of course,” said Shaw before a click signalled she had hung up. For a few seconds Root sat holding the phone, reluctant to give up this small connection to Shaw, the woman who had done so much for her and Emma in such a short space of time. You’re being ridiculous, she told herself and slammed the phone down with slightly more force than was necessary. Holding onto the desk for support she stood up and made her way to towards the bookshelves. 

Of course, Emma was still sound asleep on the bench. The building could take off to Oz in a hurricane and she still wouldn’t wake up. Root gently stroked her daughter’s hair and whispered, “wake up sleepyhead.” 

Emma sleepily batted her hand away and rolled over. Root tried again at regular volume, “time to get up.” 

Grudgingly, Emma sat up. “Look, I’m up. Happy?” 

“I’d be happier if you-” Root froze, remembering they didn’t have any clothes or toiletries or anything. “Never mind. Mr Finch will be here soon to speak to us.” 

As if on cue, the door opened and he entered, walking with a limp Root had failed to notice earlier. “Hello Root, Emma,” he said briskly. 

“Hi,” said Emma, climbing off the bench. 

“I have something I wanted to discuss with you, if you’d like to sit down?” Root and Emma took a seat on the sofa and Mr Finch turned one of the chairs to face them. “I am familiar with some of your previous work, and you are in possession of many skills I believe would be useful in the line of work we pursue.” 

“And what work is that exactly?” 

“Monitoring people we believe may commit crimes and stopping them.” Finch paused, unwilling to divulge any more information. 

Root shook her head. “I’m retired. Conning people, undercover work, missions, I don’t do that any more now I have a child to look after.” 

Finch clasped his hands. “I see. In that case I suppose it would not be out of order to ask for your help in a different medium?” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Hacking, assessing people’s digital footprint and find out why we are told they may be a danger without putting yourself at risk. Since Mr Greer will be searching for you now it would be best if you stayed here, and you might as well be of assistance.” 

Slowly, Root replied, “it depends on where you get your information.” 

“An artificial intelligence with considerable capabilities,” replied Finch, looking very uncomfortable. 

“An all-seeing AI,” mused Root staring into the distance. “Monitoring everyone and everything.” She stood up and began to pace, realising the implications of what he had built. “Imagine all the information at our fingertips! A being like that would be...perfect, by design. Omniscient.” 

“I wouldn’t go that far. There is an inherent risk of human corruption. We have to tread carefully. That is, if you would be willing to help?” 

Root’s grin worried him slightly. “Absolutely.” 

Finch stood. “Thank you. When we next get a number I will inform you. Unfortunately, right now I have a prior engagement with a dear friend. As soon as I am able I will set you up with a cover identity.” With that he made his exit, leaving Root reeling. An omniscient ASI. 

“Mommy, what was he talking about?” asked Emma. 

“Just...computer stuff. We’ll be staying here for a while now.” 

Emma stuck her bottom lip out. “I don’t have any of my things!” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said a familiar voice from the doorway. 

Root couldn’t stop the smile that spread over her face. “Shaw!” 

“Turns out it’s not everyday two people leave all their worldly possessions on a bus,” said Shaw, handing Root their bags. “I also picked up some food.” 

Root eyed the two full-to-bursting grocery bags that had been added to their things and raised an eyebrow. “Some?” 

Shaw shrugged. “I didn’t know what you liked.” 

“So you bought out Wal Mart?” 

The corners of Shaw’s mouth twitched in her version of a smile. “I gotta go,” she said. “Finch wants me and John to scout out Greer’s operation.” 

“Thank you, Shaw,” said Root sincerely. 

Shaw nodded, and left. 

Root unpacked the groceries into the fridge while Emma changed into some new clothes. “What do you want to eat, Em?” 

“Sweets?” 

Root laughed. “What actual food do you want?” 

“It’s morning, so cereal,” said Emma as if this should be obvious. Root fixed them some in two of the bowles Shaw had bought. After they had eaten she brushed her hair and changed into a pair of black leggings and a purple shirt, this simple task making her feel much more professional. The phone rang again and this time she did not hesitate to answer. “Hello?” 

“We have received a number,” Mr Finch informed her. “Find out all you can on Tom Smith.” He reeled off a social security number before hanging up. On a whim, Root decided to use the computer on the desk, and once she had looked up all she could on Tom Smith, she tried to find out more about this AI. As she scrolled through lines and lines of code, she gradually learned more about this elusive ‘Finch’. His code was so…elegant. She would recognise it anywhere. And she did recognise it. About five years ago during one of her less legal endeavours somebody had attempted to hack the laptop she was using and stop the transaction. Somebody who had known exactly what she was going to do and exactly how she was going to try and stop them. The one and only time somebody had bested her. Edward had come in just as she was slamming the lid of his laptop down in frustration. She had planned to mysteriously leave later that evening, before he could get too attached, but all her plans had been ruined. It was a few days before she had another chance to use his laptop, but by then the damage had already been done. Emma was born nine months later in an apartment that belonged to one of her many aliases. 

Since then, Root had gotten her act together. Not putting herself in danger, making sure Emma had enough to eat and a place to sleep. Nothing was the same when you had a child to take care of. 

Once she had called Finch with the information, Root leant back in the chair and clasped her hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling. 

“Mommy,” called Emma from the library. “Will you come and play with me?” 

Root felt a smile spread over her face and sat next to her daughter. “Of course. What do you want to play?” 

Emma got a pack of playing cards out of her bag. “We’re going to play snap. It is a snap if the cards have the same shape on them.” She dealt out the cards and put one in the middle. It was the 8 of hearts. Root placed her card in the middle, the 3 of diamonds. Emma put down the ace of clubs, then Root the 5 of spades. “Snap!” she called, slamming her hand onto the pile. 

“That’s not a snap,” said Emma, pointing at the different suits. “You have to retract the snap.” 

Root laughed. “I have to what?” 

“Retract the snap. You put your hand on the pile then move it away saying snap backwards.” Emma demonstrated. 

Root copied her hand movement. “Nasp! No, wait that isn’t snap backwards. Uh, pans! There we go.” 

Emma shook her head as if she was disappointed in her mother. They carried on playing until Finch and John came in, finding them absolutely in stitches after making the new rule that you had to retract the snap with the same amount of vigor that you said snap, and since they were both very competitive it became quite violent. 

“Uh, Miss Groves?” Finch asked nervously. 

Root set her cards down and turned to face him. “What can I do for you?” 

“Actually, it’s more a case of what we can do for you.” Finch gestured to the phone. “Somebody wants to speak to you.” It rang and he nodded for her to answer it. 

“Hello?” 

A disjointed, crackly voice replied. “Can. You. Hear. Me?” 

Excitement flooded through Root, thrumming in her veins as she realised who she was speaking to. “Absolutely.” 

“Will. You. Help. Me?” 

Root barely seemed to notice as her nails dug into the table, chipping her black nail polish and leaving little crescent-moon dents in the wood. “Yes.” 

“Analog. Interface. Acquired.” 

A month later 

“Thank you all for coming,” said Root. “I have had plenty of time to think about this and assess every possible contingency, and here’s the plan.” She pointed to three pictures pinned up on the plastic bulletin board. “John Greer, Jeremy Lambert and Martine Rosseau are Samaritan’s three main acolytes. If we divide and conquer them, the rest will be easy.” She then pointed to a set of blueprints. “Samaritan is not yet online because they haven’t been able to get hold of a chip with enough power to run it. We don’t have long before they do, so we need to work quickly. If you can get a bomb inside the facility without them noticing you can destroy it once and for all. Then the world will never be subject to Samaritan’s rule.” Her plan was met with silent, contemplative faces. “This will work,” she promised. “You just need to trust me.” 

“When do you plan to tell us what our individual roles are?” asked Harold. 

Root grinned. “I’m glad you asked. The key to the success of any plan it not the plan itself, but the precision with which every participant completes their own task. I’ll tell you all separately, so you can only focus on what you have to do.” She clapped her hands together. “That’s it for tonight.” 

John, Harold, Shaw and Gen left, and Emma sat on her bed in the library reading an old volume of Harold’s on Egyptian history that she had recently discovered a passion for, although at five years old most of that passion was devoted to the statutes of gods and goddesses. Root sat at the desk with her head in her hands. Her past week cooped up in there had been spent running the plan over and over in her head and stressing about every little thing. 

The sound of the phone ringing jolted her out of her reverie. She picked it up, and a familiar electronic voice asked, “Can. You. Hear. Me.” 

“Absolutely,” she replied, exactly the way she had the first time the voice she had grown to love so much had spoken to her. 

“You. Did. Good. Seventy. Eight. Percent. Chance. Of. Success.” 

“Only seventy-eight? I’d expected higher for talented people like us.” 

“Analog Interface is correct, primary assets are talented.” The more time the two of them spent speaking, the more human the Machine sounded, as if Root was rubbing off on her. But maybe it was the other way around, and Root was becoming more like a computer. Her thought processes were rather logic-driven, she supposed. And after all, computers made more sense to her than people. 

“Time to begin,” said the Machine. 

Root   
The person staring back at her in the bathroom mirror bore strong resemblance to Root, but was not Root. She was Caroline Turing, a psychiatrist. Root had always had a fluid identity, able to dress up and look the part with apparent ease. Altering her mannerisms and idiolect like a chameleon. She could scroll through personalities like a fruit machine, selecting the one that best filled the criteria. Today she was a quiet, reserved woman who fitted clearly into the mold society loved to label ‘femme fatale’. Her hair was swept up into a bun too neat to be messy, but messy enough that she didn’t appear aloof. Her dress had a deliberately low neckline, but not too low as it had to leave something to the imagination. Once she decided enough effort had gone into crafting the perfect appearance, she entered the dimly lit restaurant. 

As she smoothly slid into her seat, she smiled at the man across from her. “Sorry I’m late,” she said in a more upper-class accent than she typically used. 

“You’ve no need to apologist,” replied Jeremy Lambert as he poured her some wine. “It’s important one looks one’s best.” 

She smiled again, making eye contact. “I agree.” She slowly reached down as if to itch her ankle and slid the small vial from her shoe into her palm. “And I have to say, you look very dashing today.” 

Was he blushing, or was it just the candlelight? “Thank you, Caroline. I’m very pleased we are able to spend this time together.” 

“Me too. In fact…” She reached her hand out towards his that was resting on the table, but knocked the small decorative vase of plastic flowers onto the floor. Jeremy bent down to pick it up and she emptied the vial into his drink and slipped it back into her shoe. “Oh my goodness, I am so clumsy!” she exclaimed as he set the vase back onto the table. 

“Not at all,” said Jeremy smoothly. “Now, where were we?” 

She picked up her own wine glass. “I believe we were about to drink to a wonderful evening.” She held up her glass and clinked it against his. Jeremy took a sip and placed his glass down, resting one hand on top of hers. “And it is a wonderf-” he gasped for air and fell forwards onto the table. Root calmly took a sip of her wine. Then she wiped her hand on her serviette and left the restaurant. 

Outside in the cool night air, she took her hair down and switched on her earpiece. “Threat neutralised,” she said in her regular accent. 

“Good. Work.” 

Harold Finch

Harold stood looking out over the sea, wearing his usual suit and a white hat shielding his face from the sun. 

“Ah, Mr Finch. So nice of you to finally give yourself up.” 

Harold turned to face Greer. “I thought it was high time we stopped this ongoing war between us.” 

Greer’s face betrayed no emotion. “You want to join Samaritan?” 

“That is one way of putting it, yes.” 

“Why, Harold. I thought I’d never see the day. Come, we can talk about it back at the facility. I have a jet waiting.” 

He turned to leave, but Harold stopped him. “Wouldn’t you rather stay here? The view is quite spectacular.” 

As Greer looked out over the sea, Harold glanced up at the security camera and the light blinked once to tell him he was doing well. “I suppose you’re right, Harold. Where better to discuss the future than a place where we can see it. The calm of the ocean here will be mirrored by the entire human race in no time.” 

“Yes. So tell me, how exactly do you plan on achieving this?” 

Sameen Shaw

The facility was surprisingly quiet, with only one of the big wigs present to order people around. Shaw slipped towards the weapons room where she found a familiar blonde woman cleaning her gun. “Nice weapon, Rosseau,” she said. The other woman looked up with the expression of disdain on her face that was a somewhat permanent fixture when in Shaw’s presence. “Wanna try it out?” Shaw trained her own gun to the side of Martine and fired once, missing. Martine cocked her own gun and fired two shots in Shaw’s direction, which both ricocheted off the wall as the shorter woman ducked, commando rolling towards Martine. She shot her once in the kneecap and, while she was down, hit her on the back of the head with the butt of her gun. “I’d say sorry, but I’m not.” She slung Martine’s prone body across one shoulder and put her gun back in its holster. She made her way out of the facility, nodding to one of her co-workers as he gave her a genuinely worried look. “She just had a little too much to drink,” said Shaw. The man nodded and hugged the wall as she passed him, not daring to meet her eye. She didn’t run into anybody else on her way out of the building. 

They had timed it so that she would leave just as some new keyboards were being delivered, and Shaw found the empty van outside. The keys were in it, and she could see the retreating forms of some men carrying cardboard boxes. She bound Martine's wrists and ankles and placed her in the back before locking the doors and climbing into the driver's seat. Just as she was revving the engine, the two men returned and started shouting at her. “Sorry, boys. I need to borrow this to save the world.” She turned on her earpiece. “I have Martine, she’s unconscious in the back.” 

Genrika Zhirova  
“Good work, Shaw,” Gen said, still excited by the fact that she had an earpiece. “Is this where I do my thing?” Gen was fairly sure she could hear Shaw rolling her eyes over the phone line. 

“Just tell me what Harold is doing.” 

Gen turned the volume up on one of the speakers in her so-called ‘command station’, known to the rest of the world as Harold’s library. She could hear a man with a British accent educating Harold on the future. “Some English guy is speaking to him.” 

“Good. So Harold has Greer, I have Martine, have you heard from Root?” 

Gen kicked her feet up on the desk. “She said Jeremy has been taken care of. She also said to explicitly tell you she didn’t kill him.” 

“Alright, it’s time for the next stage. Do you remember what you have to do?” 

“Yes, Shaw. You and Root only told me ten thousand times.” 

“Enough of that attitude. And take your feet off the desk.” 

Gen sighed dramatically and obliged, becoming more and more certain that Shaw was psychic. Remembering the instructions Root had given her, as well as the many books she had read on espionage and hacking, she flexed her fingers and began typing. 

John Reese  
John’s ears were abruptly assaulted by the sound of the fire alarm blaring. “Ouch,” he winced. “Gen certainly did it.” 

“That’s my girl,” said Shaw over the comm. 

“You know, Shaw, only you would be proud that your child just committed a federal offence.” 

“What can I say, I trained her well.” 

John shook his head. Keeping his eyes trained on the horizon, he counted how many people led the building. Once everyone was out, he ran over to them. “I just got word from Greer that there is a highly dangerous gas leak and you all need to vacate the area!” he shouted, to be heard over the alarm. His coworkers all shared worried glances, some looking back at the building in fear, but nobody moved. “Today, people! Or have you all forgotten where the jets are located?” There was a general murmur of annoyance, but eventually people broke off in small groups and headed to the airfield. “We don’t know when this will be fixed, so I suggest you all go home to your families and wait for me to contact you.”  
John gave it another half hour to make sure everybody was far enough away, before heading inside. Gen had turned off the alarm, thankfully, and he placed the bombs in each of the main rooms. He then headed up to the roof where his helicopter was waiting. He climbed into the driver's seat and flew just further than the minimum safe distance before pressing the trigger. 

Area 51 went up in flames, taking every last trace of Samaritan with it. 

Team Machine, as they had taken to calling themselves, all met up in the library later that evening to celebrate saving the world. Samaritan was gone, all the poor souls who had no idea what they had been doing were safely home, Samaritan’s top agents had been incarcerated in Iron Heights by one of Harold’s friends, and it had only involved some mildly illegal behaviour. 

“Everybody wins,” said Root, holding up her mug of coffee. “And the world survived to fight another day.” They all toasted, cheering and smiling. Harold and John made their excuses and Emma was flat-out on the sofa. 

“You have school tomorrow, Gen,” said Shaw. “You should be going.” 

Gen stood up. “Alright.” 

She was halfway through the door when Shaw called, “don’t you want the key?” 

“Oh no it’s fine, I’ll just pick the lock.” 

“You will not!” Shaw stood, thrust the key into her hand and practically herded her out of the door. 

When it shut, Shaw turned to Root who was sat on the floor smiling. “That’s some A+ parenting, right there.” 

Shaw sat next to her. “Gen’s a strange kid, but she knows what she’s about.” 

Root nodded. “I’m trying to do what’s best for Emma but it’s hard.” 

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing a great job raising Emma.” 

Root smiled gratefully, on the verge of tears. “Thank you.” 

They sat in silence on the floor for a few minutes, neither feeling the need to say anything but both enjoying the other's company.


End file.
